


Coming Home

by hootyhoobuckaroo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Mild Gore, My First AO3 Post, SO MUCH FLUFF, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, dad!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 02:07:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15475134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hootyhoobuckaroo/pseuds/hootyhoobuckaroo
Summary: Bucky’s coming home from a rough mission, and he’s beat up and bruised, ready to see his family. But things are rarely ever that easy, are they? (a.k.a. Bucky wins Dad of The Year award). There's a little bit of action, little bit of angst, and a good dose of fluff to top it all off!This is the fanfic I'm proudest of, and I'm really excited for it to be my first post on AO3. I hope you enjoy <3





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTE: for the Russian bits, it was Google Translate so sorry if it’s wrong. As far as I know, “Вольно, мальчики” means “At ease, boys”, and “Зайчик” (zaichik) means “bunny”. I hope you like it! <3

Two hours and thirteen minutes ago, Bucky had spat out a tooth. He wished he could say it was a new experience for him, but the revolting mixture of coppery blood, miniscule bits of flesh, and an uprooted tooth felt disgustingly familiar on his tongue. It was bad enough he had to endure a whole three minutes more of combat before he could lean over and unbuckle his mask, and with a retch, let the contents of his mouth heave onto the ground. His hands gripped his knees, and Bucky winced when the sharp inhale of fresh air brought a stab of pain in his gums. “Stark,” he ground out, wincing again when he wiped his bloody cheek on the rough material of his sleeve, “I thought you had this mask reinforced with Kevlar and some plastic polycarbonate bullshit so I _wouldn’t_ end up with a broken face.”

Iron Man held his hands up sheepishly, but there was a note of reprimand in his voice. “Well Barnes, maybe don’t use your face as a battering ram. I get we’ve all head-butted people at one point or another, caught up in the heat of the battle, rah rah rah whatever, but I think _that_ was a bit excessive.” Maybe Tony had a point.

Approximately forty five seconds before one of the molars in his upper right mandible was bludgeoned out of his skull, Bucky had found himself in a predicament. Being cornered and surrounded by enemy agents was never ideal, but that didn’t matter when you were the Winter Soldier. He could neatly incapacitate (not kill, thanks Steve) HYDRA agents from a distance – shot to the upper thigh, maybe a throwing knife to sever the tendons in the tender joint of the elbow, or simple a metal fist to the temple. However, his ICER was empty, the handgun strapped to his thigh was too, his throwing knives were buried in agents down the hall, and the fifteen men cornering him were armed. He counted six with stun batons, and his mouth pulled into a snarl when one sparked theirs experimentally. Not that they could see it, behind the mask. Nor would they see his eyes harden behind his tinted goggles, as he steeled himself to go back into the fray. Bleeding sluggishly under layers of Kevlar and leather, fractured bone fragments grinding painfully in chest when he shifted, he tried to level his breathing. _Inhale_. They were waiting for him to pounce, like some big cat in a zoo. They were the keepers. _Exhale_. There were more on his left side. Smart. _Inhale_. For amateurs. HYDRA agents were always incompetent when it came to spacing. _Exhale_.

He crouched, left arm extended behind him. Fifteen pairs of standard-issue combat boots squeaked on the concrete floor as the agents readied themselves for his attack. Bucky was glad they couldn’t see his face twitch yet again when the electric batons started to crackle. “Вольно, мальчики,” he purred from behind the mask, and was the visceral reaction to that ever so satisfying. He generally only spoke English in enemy bases, to help ground himself, but there was something to be said about taunting HYDRA in their mother tongue.

Startled and scared, a rookie swung out at his head with the baton. That was all he needed. Like the predator they saw him to be, Bucky launched himself with powerful grace at his prey, teeth bared.

At the end of the day, he didn’t need a weapon to do his job. His skeleton, reinforced with metal plating, strengthened by countless breaks, and fortified by the serum, was strong. Unbearably so. The force of his elbow against the rookie’s face was enough to knock him out cold. In the time it had taken the rookie’s body to hit the floor, Bucky had twisted lithely over his shoulder, grabbed the baton, and hurled it down the hall. It was a useful weapon, yes, but the sound of the baton crackling and snapping was enough to set him on edge. His boots hit the floor, and he spun, knee raised to nail the agent he knew was a foot behind him, to his left, reaching for a stun gun. All this happened in approximately two and three quarters seconds.

Bodies were strewn on the floor, and it made it ever so easy for him to kick, throw, and flip stumbling agents. He was lethal. He knew it, and it made it a mild annoyance to redirect his hits to less fatal areas, or pull his punches so he didn’t break something vital. As much as it pissed him off, Steve did have a point. It was just another way of distancing himself from the Asset if he didn’t kill mindlessly. Whatever. He swung his right foot up into a clean kick that shattered a tall agent’s already crooked nose, careful not to go far enough to push the cartilage and bone up into the brain. That extra half second was all it cost him to lose his edge.

The sound of a grenade pin hitting the ground had him stiffening as he turned. Another frightened agent, emboldened by the thought of dying a martyr, hurled the explosive at him. It was probably a smoke grenade, but that was the _last_ thing Bucky needed right now, even with the ventilation system in the holes of his mask. He sprinted down the hall, at the agent, so very aware of the grenade sailing past him towards the pile of unconscious bodies. He risked a glance back out of paranoia, to make sure Steve or one of the others wasn’t coming down the hall that intersected with this one. The grenade would hit them dead on and he couldn’t do that, not again. It cost him a fraction of a second, and looking back on it Bucky couldn’t believe he’d done something so juvenile. When his head whipped forwards, he was facing a _fucking electrified net launcher_ as if the stun batons weren’t enough. How the rookie managed to get that was beyond him.

Like he’d done with three of the agents just a minute earlier, Bucky tucked and rolled, vibranium hand extended to crush the agent’s tibia. He barely registered the explosion, which he knew to be a smoke grenade by the way the agent was so willing to toss it just a stone’s throw from himself. The smoke hissed its way out of the device, and Bucky’s hand closed around a leg just as the smoke rolled past him. Instinct and eidetic memory let him know that the roughly 5 foot 10 man had fallen roughly four feet away at his 3 o’ clock.

He stepped on the man’s chest, and eased up when he felt the ribs protest under the sole of his combat boot. SHIELD could only afford to patch up so many detained enemy agents. He toed around for the rocket launcher. Where was it? It should’ve fallen to the agent’s left, only five feet away max. He knelt carefully, only to hear the slight squeak of a rubber sole. _Fuck._ Bucky’s right hand screamed in protest when he curled it reflexively. He couldn’t sweep out a leg to kick the agent without knowing how far away they were. He shifted on silent feet, towards the noise. He cocked his head. One beat later, and he could hear a quiet, shaky exhale. _Ah, got you_ , he thought. In that catlike manner, he launched himself through the smoke-filled air, towards the enemy. His skull collided with the man’s jaw as expected, breaking it cleanly. What wasn’t expected however, was to feel his own bones crack as his face clipped the net launcher held protectively to the man’s chest.

“Fuck!” he slurred, nausea lancing through him. He kicked the rocket launcher down the hall, where it narrowly missed a red-booted foot.

“Wow Barnes,” came Tony’s slightly automated Iron Man voice. “That was nasty, even for you. I heard that noise from all the way over here.” He nonchalantly fired a repulsor beam by Bucky’s (throbbing) face, and the delayed thump let Bucky know there were more agents behind him, to take the place of the fifteen he’d just incapacitated. He shrugged at Tony’s comment, and gingerly readjusted his mask, then tiredly threw his body back into the fray.

It was only afterwards he could spit out the offending tooth. After his and Tony’s exchange, he picked up his tooth with a nasty, gap-toothed grin, and tucked it into a small pocket on his right sleeve. “Cho’s gotta reattach it somehow,” Bucky shrugged. To his side, Sam shuddered. “Why d’you have to be so goddamn disgusting Barnes?” The soldier turned to him, and both Sam and Steve yelped when Bucky poked his tongue out of the bloody gap in his smile.

They were back at the compound now, and Doctor Cho has successfully grown a new root for his tooth, which had been “shoved mercilessly”, in Bucky’s own words, back in the raw flesh of his gum. The Cradle had worked its magic, as per usual. There was not a lot, however, Cho could do about the rest of his face. Before he’d even yanked off his goggles, he knew his face was going to be a mess. Looking in a mirror, after he’d been stitched, bandaged, cleaned, and handed a packet of super-soldier compatible pain meds, he turned away. He couldn’t kid himself, it was pretty bad. Starting on his temple, and curving behind his ear, was a nasty gash that Cho’s nurse actually had to suture. Bucky closed his eyes when they shaved and prepped the suture site. You loved his hair.

The nurse, a sharp woman by the name of Amrita, squeezed his shoulder comfortingly as they buzzed off a patch of hair the size of his palm. “She thinks you look dashing no matter what,” Amrita said, spreading out the needles on a surgical tray. He cracked an ugly grin at her. “Thanks for the moral support.” “Anytime,” she replied crisply, holding up a suture needle for his inspection. “Ready?”

The scalp, done after his teeth, wasn’t the last procedural thing he'd needed to take care of – above his right eye, which was purple and swollen, Amrita put an inch long row of purple sutures parallel to his eyebrow with an apologetic grimace. “I hope you can at least make it to dinner,” she said, wiping away excess blood. He eyed the time that FRIDAY had helpfully projected on the wall. 8:18 PM. “Hopefully,” he echoed.

It was 8:37 now. He looked in the mirror of the medical wing’s bathroom yet again, taking stock of his injuries once more. His hair was tied back, exposing the naked, ugly truth of just how beat up he was. The obnoxious purple sutures stood out against his pale scalp, and even more above his black eye. He could barely see out of his right eye, and sighing, he rested the icepack back against his face. The bottom of the icepack just rested on his lip, which was also swollen and red where the tooth underneath had been dislodged. Stitches on his scalp on the left side, black and blue flesh on the right half of his face, he wondered just how bad it would be when you saw it. It’d probably heal up in a day or two, but you’d still wince, and crush yourself against his ribs. He carefully flattened a hand against his ribs. Ugh. That was a hard no. He would have to hold you on his right side for the time being, ‘til those healed up as well. Looking on the bright side, Cho managed to knit up the thigh muscles torn apart by the bullet wound. At least he didn’t have to worry about that. Sighing, he bid a quiet good evening to Amrita and Doctor Cho as he exited the bathroom, and made his way out of the medical wing. Amrita stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm, and held out a clear jar of lollipops. _How could he forget?_ He gave her a thankful grin, and snagged two.

During the elevator ride up, then the walk down the halls, he managed to polish off one of the sweets. Bucky tried not to think about how considerably his mood had been lifted by the little candy, and continued down the hall, towards home.

His shoulders sagged when the familiar sight of the living quarter’s door came into view. Even though it was inside the compound, which was a clinical mix of greys and whites, you’d insisted on a welcome mat for the door, which was painted a brick red. You’d even hung metal numbers on the door, as if it belonged to one of those houses with a green lawn and white picket fence. _001_ it read, in staggered brass numbers. Bucky could see his reflection in their shiny surface when he was close enough, and grimaced. Thank god he was finally home.

He cursed under his breath when he reflexively placed his bandaged hand on the palm scanner by the door. “FRIDAY?” he called out. “Wanna let me in?” He placed his metal hand on the scanner for a good measure. “I suppose,” came FRIDAY’s crisp response. The door let out the smallest of clicks.

Warm light bathed his features as he stepped in to his home. _Our home_ , he thought, smiling at your shoes lined up neatly by the door. On booted feet that were as quiet as kitten paws, he padded through the living room, past the kitchen. He could smell basil and oregano. You’d probably made spaghetti. The lights were dim throughout the rooms, and with a start Bucky realized that meant it was probably past nine. The analog clock hanging in the hallway read 8:48. _Dammit_. It was almost bedtime.

He took a left past the armchairs in the living room, smiling to himself at the mess of drawings on the coffee table. He’d look at them all tomorrow, and exclaim over each and every bright color and crooked line. There was a light at the end of the hall, and he could hear your voice. That made his grin even wider, and he couldn’t even be bothered by the way his lip twinged.

A tiny noise by his feet brought him to a standstill. He looked down to see a lithe grey figure staring up at him, tail bristling and hackles raised. Another small hiss escaped the cat. _Oh, that’s where Marv is_ , Bucky thought to himself. Marv was the rescue cat you and he had picked out at the shelter 7 year ago, and he was the sweetest thing. In the mornings, when Bucky’s legs tangled with yours, and you were safely nestled in the curve of his arms, Marv would plaster his little body against the two of you, and purr quietly. Right now, however, Marv was hissing like his life depended on it.

Bucky realized with a start it was because Marv didn’t recognize him. _Was it really that bad?_ “Hey, shh. It’s me,” he cooed, kneeling wearily. His knee guards clacked against the hardwood as he lowered himself to the floor. He held out his hands palm up, both metal and bandaged flesh, and waited for Marv to approach him. He continued to make gentle nonsense noises at the feline, until finally, Marv inched closer. A wet, whiskery nose pressed against his metal knuckles, and Bucky dare not move as the cat carefully sniffed him. Under all the blood, grime, and antiseptic, Marv must’ve found a scent distinctly Bucky, for he let out a small _mew_ and waved his tail proudly, padding towards Bucky. Tiny paws propped themselves on his knee, and Bucky let out a quiet laugh. “See? Jus’ yer dad, you little punk.” He scratched Marv gently under the chin. While Bucky let Marv writhe all over him, he tilted his head and listened to your voice. It was hushed, and every once in a while he heard a tiny giggle. It made him smile yet again. This was what coming home felt like.

He groaned minutely when he pushed himself to his feet, and gave Marv a final pat on the head before continuing down the hall. He took a steadying breath, deep enough that it made his ribs ache. Then he knocked on the door frame. “Hello? Am I at the right place?” he said loudly, feigning confusion.

He bit back a smile when there was a gasp in response. “Let me see who it is first,” came your coy voice, yet he could hear the rushed steps of your feet. You flung open the door, to find him leaning against the frame, a weary grin on his face. “Oh Buck,” you gasped, a hand reaching out to rest on his chest. Your fingers curled around the rough straps of his jacket. “Hey sweetheart. Don’ look at me like that. ‘S worse than it looks.” His bandaged fingers wrapped gently around your wrist, and he drew you into a warm, solid embrace. “Mind the ribs,” he mumbled into your hair. You made a noise in response, and brushed your hands over his back. He could barely feel it through the armor padding his chest, but he held you closer all the same. “I missed you,” he murmured sweetly, light hands running over your shoulders, up to cradle your face. “No tongue tonight,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. You smiled into it, even though he could feel your brows knit under his fingertips. “I had to get my tooth reinserted.” He winked down at you with his good eye. You pressed a tentative kiss to his jaw, and motioned to his fat lip. “Here?” He nodded. He then tilted his head to the side, and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see your reaction to his hair.

“Oh Buck,” you whispered again. You brushed the pads of your fingers over his newly shorn hair. “ ‘S not too bad for me,” he said, looking down at his boots. “I know you like me better with long hair though.” A gentle hand cupped his chin. “My big handsome boy,” you said quietly, a hint of tease in your voice. “I’ll always find you good looking. _Don’t_ give me that face. I mean it.” You pressed your lips sweetly to his armored chest. “Plus, you could just shave the sides. Leave it long at the top. It’s the hipster look you’ve always wanted.”

You giggled up at him, and watched as his one good eye rolled in exasperation. “Okay, that’s enough,” he grumbled, lips curling. He hooked his arm back around your waist, and hugged you to him tightly. “Love you.”

A little scuffle from inside the room broke the pair of you out of your reverie. “Shall we?” You extended your hand with a flourish. Bucky quirked a brow at you, but placed his metal hand in yours. You gave it a squeeze, and pushed open the door. Your hand on Bucky’s chest kept his entry prolonged. “Guess who’s home?” you whispered into the room, bending down a little. Still waiting outside the room, Bucky’s gaze flitted randomly around dark hallway while he listened for a response. There was a small inhale, then finally, “Daddy?”

He grinned.

His face ached, but it hardly mattered. He was gone for eight whole days, and now he’d finally be able to see his daughter beyond spotty video calls from the back of the quinjet. His little Yulia.

“Hey babygirl,” he crooned, slipping through the door.

Yulia was nestled in carefully in bed, blankets pulled up to her chin, dark hair fanning across the pillow. His heart melted looking at his daughter. Her eyes, blue like his, looked up at the sound of her father’s voice. When her gaze met his, she let out a shrill scream, and dove under the covers.

Instinctually, Bucky turned on his heel, the long knife strapped to his right thigh unsheathed in the blink of an eye. He scanned the hall, heart rabbiting wildly in his chest. _No threat determined_ , his mind helpfully supplied. There was a slight pressure in between his shoulder blades, and he recognized it as the careful press of your hand. “Bucky,” you began hesitantly.

“Shit, did she see the kni-”

“No, she didn’t. Don’t worry about that.”

He sheathed it slowly, keeping it out of view as he did so. _Why had she screamed though?_

“Buck,” you said again. “I know it’s nothing new to me,” you winced as you said that, “but Yulia might not know what it looks like when you get hurt like that. If anything, she probably didn’t realize it was you.”

The Father of the Year Award went to him, if anyone. Not only did he come home with his ass beat, but he scared the shit out of his own kid. He sighed and leaned against the door frame, not turning around.

He heard a warbled little call of “Mom?” that made his chest ache, deeper and fiercer than his cracked ribs. You rubbed his bicep. “Give me a minute to figure things out,” you whispered. Bucky scrubbed a hand over his jaw, and strode into the hallway where he could watch the scene unfold without causing more of a panic.

He watched carefully as you padded quietly into the room, and settled on the edge of Yulia’s bed. There was a pint-sized lump under all the blankets, and Bucky could only assume that Yulia had curled up into a little ball like she did when she was frightened. You carefully ran your hand across her back, murmuring endearments and reassurances until the girl uncurled enough to peek out from under the bedding. Bucky carefully shifted out of the beam of light spilling from her room when Yulia’s wide blue eyes searched the dark hallway for his form.

“Yulia, sweet pea,” you said stroking a hand over her curls, which were beginning to frizz from the static of her sheets, “what’s wrong? Why did you scream at Daddy?”

Yulia was silent for a stretch, and she burrowed back into the covers as she mulled her words over. After six years of watching her, Bucky knew his little Yulen'ka liked to choose her words carefully. She spoke quietly, and infrequently around others, but he had no qualms about waiting for her to speak. Yulia wriggled around under the covers some more, and pulled the corner of the blanket up and over her head so she was wrapped up safely in a warm cocoon of fabric. “I didn’t like it,” she said at last, and Bucky could have shed tears at the sight of _her_ eyes gleaming wetly. “ ‘S scary.” She braved a peek into the hallway once more, and curled up smaller under the blankets.

You settled yourself against the wall, next to Yulia’s covered form. “What’s scary sweet pea?” You rubbed her back absentmindedly, and stared into the hall. Bucky knew you were looking straight at him, where Yulia’s untrained eye would gaze past.

“That … was Daddy?” she said tremulously. Bucky wanted to scoop her into his arms and press scruffy kisses to her little cheeks, the kind that made her giggle uncontrollably. He wouldn’t dare though, not at the risk of frightening her more. You hummed in agreement, and brushed away a stray tear or two from her cheeks. “Why does he look different? I don’t like it.” Yulia grabbed a plush animal - a soft brown rabbit that Steve had given them when she was born – and held it close to her chest.

“Well,” you began. Yulia ducked under the covers once more, but Bucky could see her little fingers peeking out as she toyed with the edge of the blanket. “Sometimes Daddy gets hurt at work. The same way you tripped last week when you were running in the park.” You carefully untucked the blankets around her, and even though you got a small whine of protest in response, the girl allowed you to pull her boneless form into your lap. She looked up at the hallway for a moment, and shrank against your chest. You nudged her chin gently, and when she looked up at you, you tapped her knee. “When you tripped at the park, you got that nasty bruise remember?” Bucky remembered hearing about this incident in a rushed video call as the quinjet flew over Poland, and how Yulia had proudly held up her Band-Aid covered knee to the camera. He still winced in sympathy when her little hands pulled up the hem of her nightie to peer at the bruise. It was a dull yellow green, and he had to stifle a laugh when she prodded at it curiously, then frowned when it undoubtedly throbbed in response.

“It’s still there,” she remarked quietly. You gathered her mop of hair carefully, and smoothed it back behind her ears while you talked. “It is. But it’s getting better, right?” After a moment, Yulia nodded. “Last week, it was purple. Like grape juice,” she said seriously. Oh, how Bucky had missed this. “It was _very_ purple,” you said emphatically, and Yulia beamed up at you, tear tracks dried on her face.

“Anyways, sometimes Daddy gets scratches or bruises just like you do, and they look just as bad. Maybe even worse,” you said, eyebrows raising for emphasis. “Really?” Yulia said, doubt in her voice, like she believed there was really nothing worse than the golf ball sized bruise on her knee. “Really really,” you said solemnly. Yulia pondered that for a while.

She cuddled against your chest, and after a few minutes, she murmured something so quiet that even Bucky’s enhanced hearing couldn’t pick it up. You banded an arm around her small frame, and with your free hand, pulled a thick, fleecy blanket off the top of her bed. You bundled it around her, cradling Yulia’s tiny form in such a loving manner that Bucky felt content to just watch for a moment. You pressed a wet kiss to her neck, making her laugh uproariously. This continued until even the tear tracks had been smudged off, and there was no sign she’d been upset in the first place. Tuckered out in only the way an exhausted child could be, Yulia slumped in your arms.

“Do you want Daddy to come back now?” Yulia stiffened, eyes wide. She glanced into the hallway, where Bucky still waited, his patience never failing him. “It’s really him?” she said in a little voice, her face pressed into your chest. “It really is.” You held her tighter. “But he looks like a zombie,” the little girl whined. You clapped a hand over your mouth so she wouldn’t think you were laughing at her fear. In the hallway, it took every ounce of his willpower not to snort. He only sobered up once he remembered exactly why his babygirl was still curled up under a blanket.

“Yulia,” you said evenly, fighting back a smile. “I promise Dad’s not a zombie. I got a really good look at him. He’s still just Dad.” It was quiet as the girl processed this information.

“So, can he come in? Your Daddy really missed you while he was gone.” Yulia nodded again, and practically disappeared inside the blanket. All Bucky could see of her was a small hand fisted in your shirt, and one wide blue eye peeking out from the depths of the thick fabric.

“Bucky,” you called. “Someone wants to see you.” Bucky pushed himself off the wall, somewhat stiff and achy after standing unmoved in the shadows for probably fifteen minutes. He was exhausted and injured, but he’d be damned if he didn’t let a gentle smile curl on his busted lips. He strode up to the door, letting his boots scuff against the floor so you both could hear him approaching.

He knocked at the door frame once more, although this time, his large frame lingered in plain sight at the entrance of the room. “Yulia,” he said, with the quiet reverence only she brought out in him. “Зайчик,” Bucky sighed. It was one of his many pet names for her, brought on by her little rabbit plush, and the way she’d hopped around excitedly as a toddler.

While the endearment made her eyes widen almost impossibly large, she shrank even further away from him, gaze never leaving his face. Bucky counted it as progress that her eyes didn’t well up at the mere sight of him.

He took a step past the threshold of her door, but no further. The steel-capped toes of his boots brushed the plush mint colored rug that lived between the door frame and her bed. Looking back on it, he supposed that he could’ve forgone the tactical gear. Nevertheless, his hand dipped into one of his many pockets, brushing aside the mask and goggles he’d clipped hastily to his belt loops whilst in the med wing. He withdrew one of the lollipops he’d snagged earlier. Just for her.

He slowly stretched out his metal arm, giving her the opportunity to focus on something familiar. His brave Yulen'ka had never shied away from his unnatural, harshly sculpted arm. She’d twine her delicate fingers in his without a second thought as she dragged him out of bed to see what she made, or run her hands over the plates absentmindedly while they watched geese in the pond. She never saw a reason to be afraid of it, and Bucky wondered if it would start now.

“I picked up a sweet for you while Doctor Cho helped make me feel better,” he all but croaked, tipping the lollipop towards her. Yulia didn’t even glance at his metal fingers when she hesitantly took the candy from him, her eyes never leaving his face. Her fingers clenched and unclenched around the plastic stick, as she worked through what she wanted to say. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

He nodded at her, and one of the rare lopsided grins he reserved just for his girls crossed his face. Nonchalantly, he raised his hands to his chest, and began undoing the straps. It was a slow going with metal fingers that scrabbled for purchase against smooth plastic, and bandaged fingers that fumbled with small zippers, but he eventually unstrapped each fastening. He shrugged off the jacket with a quiet sigh, and hung it on one of the hooks by the wall. He then reached for the overlarge buckle that clasped his heavy utility belt, and pressed it open with a quiet _click_. This too was hung on the door hook. His knee pads followed suit. Once he had knelt to remove these, he’d slowly fumbled his way through unlacing the tops of his boots. Once his feet were out, he shuffled to the door, and propped them up neatly by the base of the frame.

He turned to you and Yulia, clad in a thick black sweater that he wore under his tactical jacket for extra warmth. The hem, once untucked, hung over the top of his tactical pants. His socked feet peeked out of the dark cuffs. “How about this Yulen'ka? Do I look more like Daddy now?” He chanced a step forwards, then one more, watching her carefully.

She regarded him with wide eyes still, but he smiled when there was an almost imperceptible nod from inside her little blanket nest.

“That’s good,” he cooed. He knelt in front of the two of you, then folded effortlessly into a cross-legged position. He dug his fingers into the thick pile of the rug, unsure how to continue. He let Yulia look at him some more. Over her head, he smiled up at you, and you blew him an exaggerated kiss. Bucky clasped it to his heart with both hands, and you giggled at the lopsided grin on his face.

After goofing off some more, he looked back at Yulia, who had leaned forward just a tiny bit. He noted that tiny hands were no longing wringing the blanket. “Yulia,” he cooed, drawing out her name. He held his hands up towards the bed, and smiled at her hopefully. “My little Зайчик, I missed you every single day.” A sigh left his weary lungs, but Bucky was still smiling. “I missed you _so_ much.” He patted a thigh with his bandaged hand, an invitation to let his daughter curl up in his lap like she was often inclined to do. She looked at him hesitantly, but wriggled around in her blankets until her arms were freed. She then mirrored his pose, holding out her arms to him in a clear request of _“Pick me up_ ”. Behind Yulia, you stifled a laugh behind your hand at Bucky’s exasperated yet fond huff. He scooted closer, and without warning, scooped her up and out of your lap with a growl that elicited startled giggles from the both of you.

Still wrapped in the blanket, Yulia was a giggling bundle of little girl. Bucky held her in his lap, a metal arm banded loosely around her writhing form. Bucky glanced up at you through loose strands of hair, and you could the delicate skin around his blue eyes crinkling in relief. Then he was looking back down at your daughter, nuzzling his scruffy face into her cheek with another growl that left her giggling breathlessly. Bucky pressed a sweet kiss to her cheek as her hiccupping laughter slowly died down. Resting his uninjured cheek on the top of her head, Bucky cuddled his daughter to his chest, relishing the feeling of holding her. It was worth it, going off and fighting the world’s unending evils, if it meant he was making the world safe and sound for her. “Yulen’ka, I’m sorry I frightened you. I would never try to do that on purpose. Daddy loves you so much.” He hugged her gently.

Yulia tilted her head to look up and him. Bucky leant back so she could meet his eyes, his injured hand braced against the carpeted floor. Her dark brows wrinkled at the sight of his face. “Why are you so purple?” she finally ventured. Bucky barked out a laugh, and smoothed his metal hand over the back of her head. “When we get injured, like when you got that bruise,” he delicately tapped her tiny knee, “our bodies try to help fix it as soon as possible. They send a bunch of helpful stuff through our blood towards the cut or bump, and because there’s so much blood in that area it gets all puffy and you can see it through the skin.” Her nose scrunched up as Bucky talked, and you both couldn’t help but laugh at her utterly revolted expression. “That’s … gross.”

“I know it is, Зайчик, but it helps to make us get better.” Bucky booped her nose with a cheeky grin. Her head tilted again, and you both let her mull this over with a fond grin over the top of her head. “Okay,” she said at last. “Is that why your eye looks so weird.” Bucky nodded in affirmation, more loose strands of hair spilling across his cheekbones. “Mhmm. It won’t stay that way – maybe for two days, then it’ll be less swollen and purple-y.” Watching the two of them, it made your heart ache with indescribable fondness, seeing your little one all nestled up to your husband, who patiently explained things to her. The hair escaping his ponytail brushed Yulia’s cheek as he gathered her closer to murmur something in her ear. You couldn’t quite catch it, but Yulia gasped, and put a small hand on her father’s bearded cheek.

 

Bucky let her move his head this way and that, and at one point he tapped a finger by his stiches. You watched his bandaged fingers carefully travel from his scalp to his forehead, and from what you understood, he was explaining in simple words what they did. Blossoming in your ribs with a familiar ache was contentment as you watched your husband pick up Yulia’s plush rabbit, point to it, and mime sewing a few exaggerated stitches. He then pointed to his own garish purple stitches, and Yulia’s bright blue eyes became impossibly wide.

Bucky had to cradle to her his chest she laughed so hard. “Mom, Mom,” she panted in that sweet voice of hers. “Daddy had to get his face sewed just like Rabbit!” She held up the plush for emphasis, and you couldn’t help but laugh too. You laughed even harder when Yulia pointed out that her Daddy’s stitches were “Twilight Sparkle purple”, much to his dismay.

Once the three of you had calmed down, Yulia taking the longest for her hysterical laughter to subside, Bucky tickled her ribs to get her attention. “It might be past your bedtime, but I think tonight can be a treat.” Yulia’s little hands clutched at the thick black wool of Bucky’s sweater, and you could tell she was already on the same page as her father. “I think your mom will be okay with this,” he continued (a sly glance in your direction let him know it was okay to continue), “But if you want, we could all have some hot cocoa together. How does that sound?” Yulia’s scream of delight was answer enough.

“Okay, Зайчик, let’s hop to it.” You rolled your eyes at his stupid joke, but fondly. He’d probably never stop enjoying saying it. Bucky stood, swinging Yulia up into his arms. Her arms looped around his neck, and she tucked her face carefully into the soft wool of his sweater, mindful of his injuries. She really was a sweet kid like that. Bucky padded silently into the kitchen, and for a moment you lingered by the door to watch the two of them go. With the view of your girl, in the safety of your husband’s arms, you couldn’t think of anything that felt more like home.

After a beat, Bucky listened for the sound of your footsteps, so familiar to him. When he heard none, he turned to see you waiting down the hall, a fond look crossing your features. He pressed an absent-minded kiss to Yulia’s head, then shifted her to his hip so he could hold out a hand. “C’mere sweetheart, I wanna kiss both my girls.” Once his arm had hooked around your waist, and pulled you into the warmth of his embrace, only then did he finally feel at home.

**_END_ **

**Author's Note:**

> So, what did you think?! 
> 
> Let me know in the comments please because I almost had kittens posting on AO3 for the first time. 
> 
> If you liked what you read, come find me on tumblr @hootyhoobuckaroo if you wanna say hi or even make a request - my requests are open so please drop one in the ask box if you feel like it!


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